


small weird loves (teenage dream.mp3)

by kingsoftheimpossible



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Title: William Nylander's Poor Decision Playbook, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Casual Sex, Disappointing Sex with Auston Matthews, Discommunication, Distinctly Unsexy Sex, Friends to Lovers to Strangers to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 18:52:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11743059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsoftheimpossible/pseuds/kingsoftheimpossible
Summary: William Nylander is not a disaster.Mostly.(a very loose interpretation of that time period where Willie wouldn't answer Pasta's fucking text messages.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> timelines are for ur mom's social media.  
> _____  
> u: dark google, show me the worst ever characterization of william nylander  
> _____  
> u: maybe learn something about william nylander or a single fucking maple leaf before committing to a whole fic??  
> me: (opens a kitkat and just bites into it without breaking it apart first)
> 
>  
> 
> (also thank u chloe!!)

He came on Auston Matthews’ dick once, but it's not as if he's the first or last person to ever fall to that particular vice. It's one part curiosity, one part Ignoring The Big Thing He Doesn't Think About, one part pigheaded determination, and then a whole lot of other parts that all add up to a hotel room in Chicago, sexiling Mitch Marner, and finding out the exact taste of poorly laundered hotel linens. 

Auston’s cock is so thick it's turning him into a mouth-breather, lips chapped from rubbing against the rough sheets. His tongue won't stay put, whether it's exploring the backs of his own teeth or lolling out lazily to lick at the wet spot he's drooled onto the cotton. The upshot of it is that he can't  _ shut up-  _ not even words, just embarrassing breathy noises that rise in pitch the harder Auston goes.

Until he stops, which is worse, somehow.

It's such a sudden break that Willie can't comprehend it at first, fuck-stupid as he feels. There's Auston moving in him and then there's Auston so completely still that all Willie can do is feel it, which is nearly unbearable. 

“Are you okay?” is, of all the possible questions, the one Auston settles on, his voice pitchy and low. 

Willie considers, seriously, the merits of just rearing back and donkey-kicking him, but they have a game in a few days and that's not an injury he cares to explain to God and Mike Babcock. He clears his throat, distractingly aware of how dry his tongue feels as it moves through his mouth.

“Could be better,” he rasps, hoarse. “Move?”

Auston hesitates and Willie closes his eyes, relieved that they aren't doing this face to face. He doesn't particularly want to see whatever moral dilemma Auston is going through, and he definitely doesn't want Auston to see whatever his own face has been doing for the last ten minutes. 

“You sound like you're dying,” Auston deadpans, and Willie nearly loses it, sputtering a laugh that tightens his muscles, making them both wince and groan in unison.

He gets up on his elbows so he can push his hair out of his face. He's sweating, and his entire body aches from the game, and he just wants to come and get it over with, which is about as romantic as he gets these days. Nevermind how the whole thing was his idea.

“You're bigger than I thought,” he admits, rolling his eyes because it's not like Auston needs an ego boost. “Can we get back to it? It's weird having a conversation when you're just staring at your dick in my ass.” 

Auston makes an amused noise somewhere in his throat, a pleased hum that’s not quite a laugh. “Fair,” he says, and puts his back into it.

Willie wasn't lying. Auston’s thick, and it takes so much work to  _ take  _ him that Willie frankly refuses  _ not  _ to come on it. His head is elsewhere, practically asleep by now, but it's not bad at all. It gets better when Auston moves one of the hands that's been gripping Willie’s hip and circles his cock instead, loose but  _ there.  _ Something to focus on, a gentle counterpoint to the solid presence of Auston in him, the steady, inescapable push-and-pull. 

It's a relief when he does finally come. It's not world-changing or earth-shattering or any of the other rumors he's heard about getting dicked down by The Auston Matthews, but it's what he wanted- something to clear his head, something to wear him out so he can finally  _ rest _ . Plus, he’s never going to let go of the  _ ridiculous  _ noise Auston makes when he tenses up, big body going stiff where the fronts of his thighs are pressed up against the backs of Willie’s. 

They collapse, breathless, panting side by side on the single hotel bed, shoulders barely touching as they stare up at the shadowed stucco ceiling. Auston drags both hands over his face like he's trying to reset himself and says, “Good one,” which is such an Auston Matthews thing to say that Willie snorts.

“I've had better,” he laughs, because it's possible to be honest and teasing at the same time.

Auston kicks him, a lazy effort that still manages to catch Willie’s shin and  _ fucking hurt _ . “You  _ asked, _ ” Auston grumbles, sullen, and he's not wrong. Willie flings an arm over to clumsily pat at the solid muscle of Auston’s stomach

Willie’s exhausted, boneless and more than ready to slip into a post-bone coma. “Just what I wanted,” he murmurs, slurred and tired. “You did good.”

Auston turns onto his stomach, mumbling, “Don't  _ Babe  _ me,” before he buries his face in the pillow, out as easy as that. 

Willie should sleep, wants to sleep, will sleep, but he can see his phone across the room, tossed haphazardly on the stiff-cushioned hotel chair no one has ever used. He doesn't get up to get it because he doesn't need to; he's read the string of unanswered texts enough times that he can see them now when he closes his eyes, all those gray bubbles, shorter and shorter each time he hasn't answered. 

Whatever he was waiting for, whatever's eventually going to straighten out his head so he can just  _ answer  _ like a normal human being- Auston Matthew’s dick, unfortunately, wasn't it. Go figure. Who could've guessed. If only someone whose name rhymed with Schmalex Schmylander had told him to just work his own mess out months ago-

Well, it hardly matters now. They'll be in Boston soon, and if he hasn't gotten his shit together by then, the universe will do it for him.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t come on Kappy’s dick, but he does choke on it. Something, something, something, Toronto is the land of equal opportunity dick handling.

Or something.

He's not sleeping well, still, is the thing.

There’s never a moment where he isn’t tired or sore or practically sleepwalking, but at least he isn’t playing like shit on top of all that. He could be playing better, but he’s honestly surprised it isn’t worse. 

The Marlies have a running joke about Kappy’s prime DSL’s, and it took about a week for Willie to work out that for a lot of them, it wasn’t a joke so much as a poorly disguised group admission that they’ve all gotten at least a half-chub from accidentally zoning out while staring at Kappy’s weird mouth. 

In Willie’s experience, sucking dick tends to make you think about getting your dick sucked. The present is holding true to form, at least- his own lips feel swollen and tender from dragging up and down Kappy’s cock for the better part of five minutes, but mentally he’s elsewhere, staring up the pale sprawl of Kappy’s body to where he’s chewed on his own lips until they’ve gone so raw Willie can nearly see the blood pulsing under the surface. He wants to speed this up, wants to get Kappy’s ridiculous mouth on him and get done, go to sleep. 

_ Just some fucking sleep _ , he thinks desperately, sidetracked momentarily from his blowjob daydreams. He loses his rhythm and then, unfortunately, his balance, the wrist he was using to hold himself up over Kappy’s hips giving out so he drops down unexpectedly.

Call him a prude, he usually tends to avoid shoving the head of someone’s cock into his unwarned, unprepared throat. He coughs violently, throat contracting and pushing  _ out _ , and he’s  _ disgusting _ \- a thick string of drool connecting his mouth to the where Kappy’s quivering and shooting inches from his face, making an absolute mess of his cheeks- he squeezes his eyes shut tight and rides it out, the hand connected to his non-traitorous wrist playing the good sport and helping Kappy along for the last spurts.

When it’s done, he sits back on his haunches, carefully wiping his eyelashes clean with the hem of his shirt before opening his eyes to glare down at Kappy. 

“That did it for you?” he asks, thoroughly unimpressed, but Kappy’s mostly unrepentant, if a little red in the cheeks.

“Surprised me,” he says, shoulders rising and falling in a boneless sort of shrug. 

He returns the favor, at least, and it’s briefly, euphorically bone-melting. It works like magic: Willie falls asleep before Kappy’s even back from the kitchen with his water bottle, falls asleep with spit and god-know-what-else still crusted on his face and in his hair.

 

* * *

 

He's read a book at least once in his life, so he knows people like to describe summers as  _ golden.  _ It's probably overused, and it probably doesn't mean much of anything to anyone anymore.

But it was a golden summer. Every bit of it. 

When Willie can sleep, he dreams of it. The hockey, the sunshine. High, dry grass. Crickets. Pasta. Laughter, pool water, bonfires with sparks trailing up into the twilight. Pasta. Feeling and  _ being  _ singularly on top of the world. 

Or, you know, singularly- with Pasta.

He can even feel it sometimes when his alarm jerks him into consciousness: skin so warm it must be glowing, an echo of sunlight beating down, the shadow of a laugh caught in his throat. But then he’s awake, and the sunlight filtering through his blinds is pale and weak, a ghost of his dreams, and his wrist hurts, and Kappy’s already gone, and there’s still a fuck-up’s worth of aging, unanswered texts on his phone. 

He just woke up, and it already feels like he hasn’t slept in days.

Boston’s looming. 

And maybe Kappy’s blowjob lips cured him, or maybe he’s too tired of himself to keep going on the same stupid path, but he unlocks his phone and types out a quick,

_ Dinner? :) _

Once it’s sent, the phone feels like an unpinned grenade, and he seriously, logically considers just throwing it across the room. 

The reply comes fairly quickly though, a mercy and a curse because now he has to  _ read it, _ whatever it is-

Two letters-

_ ok _

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my defense for making this its own chapter is that it doesnt matter at all and time is an illusion michael and shameless self indulgence and I Do Not Want To Write The Pasta Part Because It Is Hurting My Feelings So I Am Stalling anyway nust a but yall 
> 
> also this is Completely unbeta-ed-ed-ed because grammar is an illusion michael. spelling is an illusion michael. its a fic abt some fuckin leafs michael.

It’s possible that William Nylander’s Patented Nothing Is Wrong, Don’t Worry About It Extravaganza goes a little off the rails in the leadup to Boston, but that’s pretty much the way of all things once Mitch Marner is involved. In Willie’s defense, that part is a complete accident. 

He’s only trying to catch Auston’s attention across the locker room, skin itching and bones buzzing. He needs something to knock him out, and alcohol isn’t in his diet plan at the moment. Auston Matthew’s Dick Part 2: The Dickening is also not explicitly in his diet plan, but that one’s a little harder for the team nutritionists to call him out on, so he’ll settle. The problem is that it’s pretty damn hard to get Auston’s attention without catching Mitch in the crossfire, but William Nylander is an expert at locker room etiquette and he has near-perfect aim, so if he tilts his chin just right-

“Williiiiee!” Mitch yells, drawing the eyes of literally fucking everyone, including Auston, who’d been uselessly oblvious right up to this point. “What’s that face for?”

Apparently, Willie’s batting a big fat zero today, and second thought, his near-perfect aim has been a little off on the ice lately as well. And  _ that face  _ was his Asking-Auston-Without-Words-If-He’s-Up-For-A-Little-Get-Down Face, unfortunately, and now the entire team’s looking at it.

Fucking Mitch Marner.

At least Mitch managed to drag Auston’s focus to Willie, and Auston looks about as interested as a dead-cow-eyed brick wall can ever look. Willie raises his eyebrows in question, tilting his head suggestively. Auston shrugs. 

And they say romance is dead.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, Mitch and Auston had plans. Apparently, those plans aren’t so important that they can’t be altered slightly to include Willie and that evergreen Leafs pastime: jerking off on Mitch’s face.

Willie’s a little disappointed, because he could’ve jerked himself off at home if that’s all they’re doing- but Mitch puts his tongue out, lets Willie and Auston feel it where they’re bumping knuckles in front of his face, and Auston makes that  _ noise  _ again when he comes, guttural and so fucking embarrassing that Mitch keels over ugly snort-laughing on the carpet.

Willie’s hardly any better off but he tries to sound stern when he snaps, “ _ Hey _ , not done!”, gesturing pointedly to his very-much-still-an-erection. There’s a sort of intermission- if this were a ballet, Willie thinks distractedly, the curtains would be closed on this bit: Auston lazily ambling to his bedroom and coming back with a heinously gross bottle of lube ( _ wipe it off once in a fucking while, maybe _ ), Mitch popping his sore jaw with a loud  _ crack _ ( _ disgusting. _ ), Auston settling on the carpet beside Mitch and awkwardly wedging a hand between Mitch’s folded legs and working two fingers into him-

Mitch goes from laughing and trying to recreate Auston’s stupid come-face to making pitchy, breathy noises of his own, tongue lolling out to catch at the tip of Willie’s cock where he’s been stroking himself with what would best be described as mild interest for the last few moments. 

Intermission over, the show must go on. 

Mitch is panting, thighs straining where he’s holding himself up on Auston’s fingers, and he’s so  _ loud _ , his teeth catching Willie’s dick just-this-side-of-painful when Auston does anything unexpected. 

The noises are more than a little distracting, and Willie can’t quite find an edge to fall from- every time he gets close, Mitch will whine or whimper and it pulls him back, has Willie nervously checking to make sure he isn’t choking.

“Can you  _ shut up _ ?” Willie asks finally, desparate to the point of frustration. His asscheeks have been clenched for so long that one is cramping, which is embarrassing. He’s a goddamn hockey star and he can’t fuck Mitch Marner’s mouth without his ass giving out on him. 

Auston looks up from where he’s been watching his fingers disappear into Mitch with a detached sort of curiosity, and his face is unimpressed when he points out, “You didn’t.”

Willie’s face heats up, hips jerking reflexively at the surge of embarrassment and irritation that sweeps through him. He grits his teeth, looking away from Auston and back to Mitch, who is a  _ mess.  _ His eyes are watering and his hair is every kind of fucked up from Willie’s hands in it-

With a startled, unexpected bout of fondness, Willie realizes that Mitch is trying very hard. Then again, when isn’t he- but Willie appreciates the effort, closes his eyes and forces himself to relax, to space out, focus wandering hazily from the feel of Mitch sucking at him to his mostly unsuccessful attempt to be quieter to the way he can tell Auston’s still got eyes on him-

He gasps a warning, pushing Mitch’s face away as gently as he can manage in the moment, and comes into his own cupped hand, back bowing and knees wobbling dangerously. He’s still trembling a little when it ends, that same damn asscheek protesting mulishly. 

Willie’s not much for kissing teammates these days, but he figures Mitch would like it, and that he deserves it, so he bends at the waist and fits his mouth to Mitch’s bruised lips, just one soft press while Mitch shakes apart on Auston’s fingers. 

The clean-up is one of Mitch’s nut hairs shy of nonexistent, and they end up sprawled still-mostly-disgustingly on the couch, Mitch starfishing until he’s somehow not only  _ between _ Willie and Auston, but above, beneath, around them. Willie only feels the slightest resentment when he realizes Mitch is already sacked the fuck out, head tipped back and mouth hanging open, careless. 

Auston catches him looking at Mitch and his face  _ nearly  _ does something, which is the human equivalent of someone having a whole damn emotion. 

“ _ What _ ,” Willie groans quietly, sinking further into the couch so Auston can’t see him without physically leaning around Mount Mitch. 

Auston’s casual when he responds. “Feel better?”

What a stupid question. Willie sniffs, staring up at the ceiling and willing Auston to fall into a post-nut coma like any real person. “I always feel better than you ever could.”

“Better if you talk to someone,” Mitch mumbles, because not only is Wille going to be grilled by First Class Feelings Sergeant Auston Matthews, he’s apparently signed up for life coaching from Mitch The Fuck Marner. 

_ One orgasm was not worth this _ , throbs Willie’s cantankerous asscheek. 

“Hey, Auston, shouldn’t you get him home before his mom starts to worry?” Willie asks, narrowly dodging Mitch’s poorly-attempted retaliatory nipple twist. 

“You’re just mad because you know I’m  _ right, _ ” Mitch argues, forgoing his orgy nap to fling himself at Willie, horrible gremlin tickle fingers activated.

So that one doesn’t exactly put him to sleep. Fucking Mitch Marner, and all.


	3. Chapter 3

So here’s the thing about Boston: there’s a strong possibility Willie’s not at anything near his best. Hockey-wise, he’s above and beyond his best, fucking killing it, honestly- but the other part of being a person functioning in the world where he has to like, be an adult who makes good choices and says the right things and isn’t a nightmare-

The Pasta thing doesn’t go _super_ well, is what he’s getting at. The dinner is a little stilted and weird, but Willie does his best to talk through it. So Pasta never quite meets his eye. So what. Slow and steady.

And then there’s the game, which is great, and also, you know, if you were someone else in a different jersey, or something, not super great at all. Perspective.

But Pasta’d agreed to meet Willie in his hotel room after, and he shows up, because of course he does, because _when would David Pastrnak ever let anyone down_ , Willie thinks a little desperately, sorting of wishing he could think of an example so he could at least feel a little better about himself.

Nothing doing. Shame. (Unless he lets himself be as needlessly cruel as he can be, at his worst- then maybe, in a certain light, Pasta let the Bruins down, a little.)

Pasta’s hair is still damp from his post-game shower, dripping on the collar of his gameday suit. The suit is new, but somehow not quite as unfamiliar as the altered body beneath it, filling out the creases and seams in a way that’s totally-

“So,” Willie says, and his voice at least sounds normal, even with his heart chattering along like a snare drum in his chest. “Movie?” He smiles in what’s meant to be a winning fashion, but the effect is lost on the side of Pasta’s face where he’s staring determinedly at the blank television screen.

But he says, “Okay,” and then settles onto the _stiff-cushioned hotel chair that no one ever uses,_ or something like that- Willie has a flashback to sprawling out in the dark beside Auston, staring at the nearly identical chair in a nearly-identical hotel room hundreds of miles away. He wonders what Auston would say, if Willie ever told him anything he hadn't already guessed about Pasta.

On a very surface, obvious level, Willie'd known that he’d fucked things up a touch with Pasta, but the gulf between the bed where Willie’s reclining in a fresh t-shirt and strategically chosen black briefs and the ugly chair where Pasta is sitting straight as a board, hands fisted awkwardly in his fully-clothed lap-

That’s a whole hell of a distance that Willie hadn’t let himself see coming, is all.

He flicks on the tv, scrolls through the movie channels and occasionally presses Pasta for input. It’s an incredibly stilted eight minutes of vague humming and _anything fine_ before Willie settles on something dated and purportedly funny- though no one would ever know, from how dead silent the hotel room is during the entirety.

Willie spends the hour-fifteen watching the light flicker across Pasta’s profile, the tight line of his newly-sharpened jaw. He’s still wearing his fucking jacket, and Willie would give almost anything just to see the set of his shoulders right now- the knobs of his spine, if they still stick out enough to be noticeable, or if he’s bulked up beyond that, if he's an entirely new beast Willie can't even imagine handling.

Pasta’s fingers twitch in his lap, and he’s been so still that the movement is like a cannon booming. Willie startles in response, a full-body jerk that finally gets Pasta’s attention.

His jaw is set, but he’s looking at Willie, and Willie-

Willie does this  _thing_ with people sometimes; he can't help himself. It’s like a chess match, or more accurately: just some stupid game where the object is to make the other person so angry they have no choice but to speak to you, or leave.

"Rough night." he says, a softball to start, but Pasta's lips go thin anyway. Everything about him is a razor's edge, and Willie can't for the life of him just leave it the fuck alone. "It's not your fault, really. No one actually thought you were going to be a fucking McDavid or Matthews or whatever."  

In a very funny, horribly serious way, it hurts Willie probably more than it could ever hurt Pasta, who never overvalues himself, who loves hockey just because he  _loves_ it. Pasta who maybe hasn't tied his whole self-worth to a bunch of grown men banging around in an ice tank for the amusement of the general public.

It's still a dickish thing to say, and Pasta stands abruptly, halfway to the door before Willie's caught up with him. It's really easy to leave quickly, Willie thinks sourly, when you never took off your fucking coat. He grabs at Pasta's wrist, too hard, maybe, but if he'd just-

If he'd just  _look_ at Willie, if he'd just say he's mad, if he'd just  _fight_ -

“Don’t- don’t _go_ ,” Willie says, sounding disgusted by the very idea. It’s a standoff where Pasta already has his hand on the doorknob, suit jacket wrinkled from Willie's hand, and Willie can't think of anything but the thin sliver of skin-on-skin contact where his palm is touching Pasta's wrist. It's a hard shake to keep his whole world from narrowing down to just that: the unexpectedly silky feel of Pasta's pulse thrumming in his hand, caught.

It's like a fucking Western, like high noon: so unbearably still. _Where's the tumbleweed?_ Willie thinks, nearly laughing out loud because this is all so fucking _ridiculous._ If Pasta would just- if Pasta just- 

Pasta flexes his wrist experimentally in Willie's grip.

Pasta swallows, a dry click in his throat Willie can hear from a foot away.

Pasta makes one slight, but grave, error- Willie sees it, the way Pasta’s eyes jump down and get caught, seemingly against his will, on the place Willie’s black briefs hug his thighs.

Everything _clears_ , and Willie thinks  _of course, of course._ How could he have missed it? As if half his memories aren't Pasta's callused hands gliding up the soft insides of his thighs, Pasta's mouth clumsy with want, overeager- Willie's grinning already, smug in spite of himself, and it’s like- Joan of Arc, or something-like there’s a devil in Willie’s ear whispering him to victory, guiding the fingers of his free hand to his waistband and slipping his thumb under the elastic, slipping it down-

“ _Don’t_ ,” Pasta spits, momentarily panicked and beautifully, viciously present, wrenching his wrist away so violently that Willie loses his balance, has to catch himself on the ugly fucking chair. 

And god, if Willie'd thought it was quiet before, that's absolutely nothing to the dead-space vacuum of sound now. He can't even tell if Pasta's breathing, can't hear his own heartbeat, just  _feels_ it hammering in his ears like the drums might fucking burst.

An eternity passes before Pasta breathes out, straightening and looking away, looking anywhere else.

"Don't do that," he says, clear and careful with his pronunciation in a way he never, ever had to be with Willie. 

Willie's heart stutters, jackhammers, aches. He says, "Okay," and then, softer, "okay," because he isn't sure what else to do. There's something rolling, hot and then icy, shockingly cold in his stomach. 

Like shame, he thinks, if it was so strong you could die from it. 

Pasta goes, and Willie lets him, because there's a chance he hasn't really- 

Maybe he didn't think everything through. 

* * *

No one really expected the Toronto Maple Leafs to win the fucking Stanley Cup, but that doesn't keep it from breaking everyone's fucking hearts anyway. 

_Stupid_ , Willie thinks, because his thoughts are down to vague unpleasant feelings and one-word reactions these days. If he was tired before Boston, he isn't sure he's slept a full hour at a time since. A transatlantic flight to Sweden followed in short order by a rowdy road trip to a music festival didn't, shockingly, ease his bone-deep exhaustion. Weird. 

“You look miserable,” observes Alex, frowning. He’s sunburnt already, red skin around his eyebrows turning white as he furrows his brow in worry. He looks like a teenager at a music festival, which Willie supposes he is. Just because Willie feels older than the dirt caked on his shoes, it hardly means Alex has to age quadruple time to keep up with him.

“Jetlag,” Willie says, but judging by the twist of Alex’s mouth, it’s not convincing.

He expects Alex to be his good little brother and let it go, so he’s surprised when Alex pointedly asks, “So you’ve been jetlagged all year?”

It’s nothing; it’s observant; it’s silly.

It gets Pasta’s attention.

He glances over quickly from the conversation he’s having with a few other people from their group, guys from juniors who haven't yet and might never crack the NHL, meets Willie’s eyes so briefly it must be accidental. It’s a beat, a moment, it’s nothing. Pasta looks away.

It's so hard to look at him here, drenched an achingly familiar gold by the Swedish summer, Top 40 festival beats constantly pulsing along in the background. It's not the music they listened to exactly, but all songs sound, ridiculously, like any number of  _their songs_ they belted and hummed and danced to, together. When Willie was a kid, it'd felt like every single summer was the same, like time was something that only moved during other seasons. Like every year a new, different spring swept him along until it finally deposited him on the doorstep of the same old summer, unchanged. In a lot of ways, it feels like that now: it's summer and he's back in Sweden, he doesn't have a Stanley Cup, he's sluggish, he misses the ice. Misses being good at something and being able to show it.

Willie can barely get his eyes to focus, and he's too slow to look away, still staring hazily when Pasta glances back, curiosity evident in the way he carefully examines Willie's face before looking away again.

Willie lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Tries to remember Alex's question, to think of an answer that isn't a lie because Alex is apparently old enough to see through those now.  “Yeah. Something like that.”

* * *

It’s early enough in the festival that the tent isn’t unlivably muddy, but Willie feels grimy and disgusting anyway. There’s a thin layer of salt and dust over his skin where his sweat’s mixed with the dirty air and dried, and he wants to wash more than he wants almost anything.

But he’s almost, almost, almost tired enough to sleep. It’s hot outside but shady and near-cool in the tent, and if he could just- if he just-

He’s in a fugue-state, slumped on his sleeping bag, eyelids drooping but not-quite shut when the tent flap opens and Pasta ducks inside. It should startle him awake, but he’s so- he’s just so fucking tired. 

And everything aside, it’s just Pasta. Pasta, who kicked his shoes off outside the tent so he wouldn’t track in dirt, Pasta with his hair neatly brushed back off his forehead and held by a bandana, Pasta looking at Willie, really, for once.

It’s hazy, fuzzy, disconnected- watching Pasta hesitantly step over the haphazardly strewn bags and blankets to come and sit beside Willie. Not close enough to touch but close enough to feel, a different, more subtle heat than the heavy air.

“I fucked Auston,” Willie slurs, tipping his face into his hands and leaving it there. It’s the middle of the day. It’s bright. Pasta’s beside him, breathing easy and calm.

He doesn’t respond right away, just shifts a little- their shoulders touch through their shirts, muted. 

Willie thinks about Pasta's shoulders, his new, big NHL ones and the old ones, scrawny but gently rounded, perfect for Willie to tuck his face against in their shitty twin beds.

There was some statistic, Willie remembers, some fact about how your skin layers are replaced after so long, like a new body. He wonders how many new bodies he’s had since the last time Pasta touched him, where the skin that Pasta touched ended up. If it even made it to Toronto, or if it’s still back in the room they shared. Floating around Europe as so much dust. It's gross, but he likes it maybe, in a sideways, uncertain way.

“I didn’t lose my phone,” admits Willie, muffled by his own palms.

Pasta makes the softest noise in the back of his throat before he clears it, says, “Didn’t think so.”

Willie closes his eyes, just listens- the festival is a dull roar somewhere far away, but Pasta is- he’s-

“I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t know why I-” Willie cuts himself off before the embarrassing lump forming in his throat can make itself heard. “I’m so tired all the time.” He steels himself to look up at Pasta, but he shouldn't have bothered. Pasta’s carefully examining his own hands.

He’s so- he must’ve washed his hands recently, Willie thinks stupidly, because his nails are so clean- clear pink and white, shiny. His skin all over looks warm, soft, washed.

Willie could sleep, probably, if his skin were like that, or his nails, or- or something-

“Say _something_ ,” Willie begs, voice cracking high.

Pasta glances at him, mouth twisted and uncertain. "Don't know what you want me to say." He licks his lips, just a touch dry, a few splits that would taste like iron if Willie could just lean over and- "Don't really know who you are, I think."

Like a knife, like laying on the ice and letting someone skate right over your bare chest.

Willie laughs, of all things. Chokes on an embarrassing sound and fists his hands over his eyes and rocks, like he can move away from whatever Pasta's words are trying to tear out of him.

"When I first get to NHL," Pasta says slowly, like Willie isn't having a fucking breakdown right beside him, "there's a lot of pressure. Scary."

Willie's trying to breathe and listen at the same time, and it's a little difficult because his lungs are trying to rattle up out of his throat. It's a loud process.

"You get here, and I think we can talk about it. Make it easier for you." Pasta shrugs, shoulders brushing again. "But you don't talk. Never."

_Did it piss you off?_ Willie thinks, hoping it did, hoping it felt like anything at all. He can't even ask for that much, but Pasta- Pasta leans over, resting his cheek on top of Willie's head, grounding him, half his chest pressed right up against Willie's back. Willie breathes in like he's surfacing from a lake, a gasp that he's scared will shake Pasta off him. 

"Guess I forget," Pasta mumbles, soft vibrations of his voice humming through Willie's body, so soothing that Willie's eyelids droop heavy in spite of everything, "how stupid you are."

Things can be funny and a little mean and perfectly true, Willie knows. 

Pasta touches him, just a few fingertips pressed lightly to Willie's wrist. It's not an electric shock, not an earthquake. 

Willie stares down at the Pasta's fingers, his hand, and thinks wildly,  _Kiss me,_ and then, slower, dreamlike,  _Just keep touching me._

"I'm so tired," he says again, tongue lazy in his mouth. He thinks about Auston's hands on his hips, Mitch's mouth on him. Thinks about offering anything like that to Pasta, what it might feel like to have Pasta turn him down. His entire brain jerks away from the idea, seeking out anything, anything else.

Horribly, Pasta's fingers drop away and he says, "So sleep,"as if anything could ever be so easy. As if Willie hasn't tried and tried and tried to do just that. 

_Will you touch me?_ Willie thinks, and then just- just,  _Will you stay?_

Nothing anyone's ever done to him, nothing Pasta could ever do to him would feel half as good as him just staying here, right now, in this tent; nothing would feel as good as Willie waking up and Pasta still being there, even when Willie's stupid, nostalgic dreams are over.

"Are you-" and what can Willie even say, what can he ask of Pasta after all the nothing between them? He looks up to meet Pasta's eyes finally, finally, finally, and it's a heady, dangerous feeling, a lurch in his stomach that's almost outside himself. "Are you going to go back out?" he asks finally, nodding at the tent flap, the strip of bright sun visible through it. 

Pasta looks at him, really looks at him, slow, careful, considering. He pushes the bandana out of his hair, running his hands through the neatly combed strands until he's a mess. "Think I might nap," he says flippantly, looking away and toeing his socks off, bundling them together carefully while Willie watches with a desperate surge of hope that's almost unbearable. 

"Stay here?" Willie clarifies, needlessly, but he just wants to hear it, wants Pasta to say-

Pasta's lips tug up at the corner, smile crooked and not-at-all hidden by the way he tucks his chin against his chest as he moves pillows around on his sleeping bag, a few feet from Willie. "Unless you want me to go."

_No,_ Willie thinks, and then actually says, "No," because Pasta deserves to hear it. "No, you should stay." 

The sleeping bag is nowhere near as comfortable as any bed, hotel or home, Willie's tossed and turned on in the past year. The air is heavy, hot, and the sunlight glinting through the gaps in the tent spills all over everything.

Falling asleep is easy as slipping into a sun-warmed lake.

 


End file.
